Secrets of a Sun King
by Deviant Nation
Summary: Sometimes Steven feels that his existence as a whole is just a series of unfunny punchlines strung together and made to make him look like some sort of hero. He couldn't be closer to the truth even if he tried.: Steven, Wallace/Winona centric.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** _Ahaha._ How lame is it that I'm doing a Pokemon story? Yeah. Lame. But, the one redeeming quality is that this is not just _any_ pokemon story, but a story about **Steven Stone**, former champion of the Hoenn league! Expect to see a far amount of **Wallace** and **Winona** as well in all their youthful, teenage glory. There is a high possibility of a Wallace and Winona pairing as well. I've also taken the liberties of giving both of them surnames, because neither the games nor manga have mentioned them.

* * *

**Secrets of a Sun King**

**Secret the First:** _Every hero has his beginnings._

* * *

He is unconsciously trying to make himself _not_ look like an idiot when Wallace Callaway brazenly shoves his way into his life. He fails miserably (the girl whose he's known since he was eight years old smiles—just a tiny little quirk of the lips and there is a _sound_ and he can tell she's trying not to laugh with forced politeness) and his twelve year old life is officially over. His face blushes a terrible shade of red, and he—Steven Stone—officially _hates_ Wallace Callaway. Because it would be the last of many subtle, tiny, irritable little humiliations that would push him over the edge and make him wonder why his father ever even _suggested_ that they could become _friends_. Him, friends with _Wallace_? Wallace Callaway? _Never. _Never in a million years. The world would have to come to an end before he and Wallace Callaway could even consider calling themselves 'friends'. _Hah._

He would then spend the next five years of his life trying to outdo the prick, only to beaten by him at the pinnacle of their rivalry following an overwrought campaign to see who could be the first to beat the Elite Four. Wallace would win. Steven would not. And that was that. World over. Friendship forged. And yet somehow he ended up the champion. Fancy that.

Of course, looking back, Steven undoubtedly realized that at the time he was being nothing more than an overly melodramatic _brat _and yes, in many ways, Wallace was right about calling him an exceedingly spoilt little rich kid who came from a rich family and expected nothing more in life than to take over his father's company. Of course all this came from the mouth of a snot-nosed pretentious braggart, who undoubtedly could _not_ speak for himself (his mother was Azura Callaway for goodness sake!) and this only angered Steven even more.

Because really, who did he think he _was_?

It was sad really, during that moment at the gala when Wallace asked him in a smooth and polished manner if he had any plans in the future of challenging the Rustboro gym leader and even sadder when Steven replied with a neutral, yet deceitful: "I hadn't really thought about it." Wallace smirked and murmured a fluid: "_Hmm_, interesting," and proceeded to sip on his glass of water. Steven was keen to pick up on the three (yes, count _three_) poke balls securely attached to Wallace's waistline of his hideously flamboyant getup and felt envy flourish. And it wasn't from the suit. Not only that, but there was a sharp-edged stone badge pinned predominately on the edge of his ugly, blue lapel.

The truth was, Steven hadn't thought about much at all about his future other than the growing collection of stones that he kept in his bedroom and perhaps pursuing a forthcoming education as a geologist. He was twelve years old and Wallace was thirteen. The only Pokémon Steven had was a sorely underused Beldum his father had given to him as a child and he currently used him not as a glorious battle monster, but as a digging companion in helping him find interesting and rare stones in the Rustboro Pass. Pathetic.

He tried to rationalize his shortcomings comparison to Wallace. _So what_, he thought vehemently_, that I've never thought of trying to challenge the gym leader of Rustboro_. It didn't make Wallace any _better_ than him in anyway (or maybe it did, because the boy was _so_ infuriating and _so_ calm, and _such_ a brat and why else did Wallace's stone badge bother him so much?) Steven had sighed. Did the fact that he wasn't some overly-anxious ten year old keener looking to get himself killed by stupidly leaving home on some journey for greatness make him a coward? Wallace seemed to think so. Thirteen year old Wallace of Sootopolis City, son of the acclaimed Hoenn fashion designer Azura Callaway, with his three Pokémon and stone badge from Rustboro.

_Goddamn._ _**Him.**_

Steven cursed the day his father ever decided it would be a good idea have _the_ Azura Callaway design the companies heads a wardrobe for the upcoming anniversary gala. It wasn't so much that he hated Mrs. Callaway (no, the women was perfectly fine in her six-inch heel stiletto glory, pursing and preening and eyeing up Steven like he was some hunk of dilapidated meat), but it was her son that he had the problem with. He sat with an aloof collectiveness, watching his mother take Steven's measurements, and above all, looking so bored that it was _cool_. He hadn't the slightest idea who the boy was, but he had fathomed a guess, as his absurd turquoise coloured hair matched that of Mrs. Callaway's perfectly. He also seemed to be wearing one of her latest designs. That said, if given any indication of how he felt towards the strange pant-suit Wallace was wearing, Steven theorized that what Mrs. Callaway was currently working on now would be just as ugly. He was _not _looking forward to seeing the final product of his new outfit. Still, she finished taking his measurements, bright-red finger nails creeping upwards on his leg as she assessed the length of the inseam pocket before putting away her measuring tape and smiling.

"The suit should be done within plenty of time before the gala," she told Steven assuredly. Then, like he wasn't even there, she turned to her son and said: "Wallace, honey, what do you think about purple? Will purple do? I think it'll look fabulous."

The boy who he now knew as Wallace nodded his head.

"It will bring out the blue in his eyes."

And all Steven could think about was a hideously obnoxious bright purple suit with frills and weird cuts, just like the one Wallace was wearing, and he nearly shuddered. The women left and Steven stepped down off the pedestal. He could only think of one thing to say:

"I don't _like_ purple."

"Then why didn't you tell my mother that?" the other boy asked in a droll, languid tone.

Steven shrugged.

"It seemed rude."

"So is talking about someone behind their back."

"I'm _not_ talking about your mother behind her back," Steven bristled. "I'm merely stating that I don't like the colour purple for a _suit_."

The other boy shrugged and stood up. Steven stuck out his hand.

"I'm Steven—,"

"—Stone, son of Devon Stone, owner and president of the Devon Corporation. I _know._ Everyone knows," the boy cut him off airily.

Again, Steven felt a flare of irritation bristle from the gut of his stomach. He said nothing and when the boy didn't take his hand, Steven let it fall flat against his side.

"_Right_," Steven ground out derisively. Despite offering an introduction, it seemed 'Wallace' had no intentions of doing the same, and when Steven found himself staring at Wallace expectantly, the boy let out a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes.

"_Wallace Callaway_," he intoned, as if saying his own name was a chore.

"And you're Azura Callaway's son?" Steven politely inquired, if only for the sake of conversation.

"_Obviously_."

"I see."

The room went silent. Mrs. Callaway had yet to return and an awkward lull had easily settled over the two boys. Well, from the looks of things, Wallace was anything but uncomfortable. In fact, he looked bored, or perhaps annoyed. Perhaps it was just Steven. He let his eyes roam throughout the room, settling on the painting above the mantelpiece before looking back at Wallace. The boy looked generally disinterested. Out of nowhere, Wallace spoke.

"Who was the girl you were with earlier?"

"_Huh_?"

"That girl," Wallace reiterated, his mouth pursing to form a crease. "You walked in with her earlier at the start of the appointment and she left with your father and the Chairman."

"_Oh_." Steven shot Wallace a demure look. Right. Earlier. "That would be Ren. Her father is Solomon Reagan, the Chairman of Product Development and Technology and—,"

"So she's your girlfriend then," Wallace was quick to quip.

"_No_," Steven gritted out evenly. "Just a friend."

"Right," Wallace replied with much scepticism. "But it must be hard," Wallace pondered lightly, putting a finger to his chin, "being the son of the president of Devon Corp."

"And why's that?" Steven dared to ask.

"You have to pay people to be your friends," Wallace said simply with a casual shrug.

Steven felt his face grow hot and something stuck in his throat_. That_—_that __**prick**_.

"I don't _pay_ Ren to be my friend," he nearly snapped. "I've known her since we were kids and—,"

"Right," Wallace said, cutting him off. "I don't need your life story, okay? And you still _are_ a kid," Wallace pointed out.

"And so are you."

It was lame and it was redundant, but it was the only thing he had.

With tensions flaring and Steven being about three words away from telling Wallace what an arrogant idiot he thought he was, Mrs. Callaway returned. Behind her followed his father and the Chairman. Ren was thankfully absent. On the other hand, she might have punched Wallace in the face (something Steven was currently restraining himself from doing), which Steven thought, with an air of maliciousness, would have been nice.

(And this was the first time Steven Stone ever met Wallace Callaway. And Steven was - is, forever will be - _pissed off._)

He hadn't been paying attention to the conversation for the last ten minutes, because he was bored (oh yes, very much so) and he wanted to get away from that prick _Wallace. _But it seemed however, that his father wouldn't ever shut up. Regardless, it would be impolite to leave because appearances are _important. _(Especially when you're the son of the President of the Devon Corporation).

He's not sure why he's so angry, but Steven was a very smart boy. He did however, realize very quickly _why _he was so annoyed, and it was because Wallace had hit a nerve. A very delicate, untouched nerve. No, what he said to him wasn't true, but there _were_ certain unpleasant truths to each situation. Because while Ren was his friend, it would be a lie to say that he hadn't ever thought about her in more than just a friend type way, and while he didn't pay her to be his friend, it certainly _was_ difficult making _new_ friends outside of the company family. And after thinking about all these things, it left very bitter taste hanging in his mouth.

He turned back into the conversation buzzing around him and tried to maintain a steady front.

He noted Mrs. Callaway's smile as she told his father that everything should be ready in a week's time, and his father laughed, telling Mrs. Callaway that she was a miracle worker. The women blushed and Chairman Reagan insisted what Mr. Stone says was true.

"You really have a way with fabric," the Chairman told her.

"Oh honestly, Mr. Reagan." The woman feigned an unpleasant looking blush before going on. "But really, it was a pleasure working for you. Both your daughter and Mr. Stone's son are such lovely creatures. I'm sure they'll look _wonderful_ at the upcoming company gala."

Again, she talked as though he wasn't there. How annoying.

"Please, Mrs. Callaway," Mr. Stone interrupted. "Call me Devon."

"Why of course, _Devon_." She smiled vivaciously and turned to her son standing mutely by her side.

"Devon, Chairman, have you met my son, _Wallace_?"

There was a unified, 'yes' and '_yes_' and a 'such a nice young boy' from both the Chairman and his father and Steven almost wanted to gag. Then his father turned his son and smiled.

"Steven," he said, grinning, "perhaps you and Wallace could be friends."

Steven immediately felt himself bristle and let out a forced: "Perhaps." He forced himself to smile when he saw Wallace's smirk. Deep down inside, what he really wanted to say was: "Yeah, sure Dad, over my dead body I'll be friends with _this_ asshole."

But he doesn't and the conversation keeps going on and on and on. Then his father does the worst thing he could ever possibly do.

"Mrs. Callaway," he started.

"Oh really dear, call me _Azura."_

"_Azura,"_ he laughed. "I would absolutely implore that you and your family attend the upcoming company gala. It would be _such _a pleasure to have you around, and I'm sure the Chairman is in concordance with the idea."

Steven dreadfully noted as Chairman Reagan nodded his head.

"Yes, Devon, what an excellent idea! It would be marvelous if you could make it, Mrs. Callaway."

Azura Callaway flashed the two men a thick smile and with a fluttery voice that reminded Steven of a bird, said:

"Of course gentlemen. I'll see if we can fit the gala in our schedule. I'm sure Wallace here would _love_ to come and see Steven again, wouldn't you sweetheart? And perhaps you could meet Ren!"

Wallace nodded his head and Steven said nothing because this was beginning of the rest of the next five years of his life.

(Right now, he doesn't _hate_ Wallace. Right now, there is a festering dislike for his pretentious up-held smile and his cool collected demeanor and the way he brushes off the invisible specks of dirt from his impeccably clean clothing.)

In two weeks time however, it'll be a whole different story. In two weeks Steven will make the biggest mistake (best thing to ever happen to him) of his life.

And looking back, he'll realize it's all thanks to Wallace Callaway (that prick—his _best_ friend.)

* * *

**TBC.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **For those of you nit-pickers, some gym leaders in this time period are different than the Ruby/Sapphire-verse, simply because Steven is in his youth, and you can't expect kids like Roxanne and Flannery to be manning the gyms, now can you? Also from here on out, the story is written in present-tense, third-person-point-of-view. Reviews are lovely and much appreciated.

* * *

**Secrets of a Sun King**

**Secret the Second:** _The hero will always lose the girl.  
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* * *

_

"Why'd you do it?" asks Ren with a glare, eyes so very dark under the shadow of the small trees that will wither and die in the heat of the summer. Steven is beside her, complacent, his cheeks pink (from heat or from something—he doesn't care to know) and his short hair is awkwardly poking out in all the wrong places. His world is a mess right now, but at least when he looks at Ren, things sort of seem okay.

"_Huh_?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Ren replies with added sweetness to her voice, hair so blonde it seems white under the intense sun. The city of Mossdeep is quiet and hot and every single normal person is hidden away in a café or the local space center, which has air-conditioning, dancing around with the huge oscillating fans. He can smell the salty sea air, but there's no breeze. Just salt and sun and the dry coastal heat. Her eevee, a small little thing with a tattered ear, lays lazily in her lap, tongue hanging out with the complexion of dry sand-paper.

The gala is two days past—a huge, marvelous event that was held in his family's ornate winter mansion in Rustboro. It was covered extensively by all the major news broadcasts, and there was a charming little segment where both he and Ren had stood side-by-side in their hideously ostentatious outfits—designed by _the_ Azura Callaway of course—their fathers and Steven's mother standing behind them, hands on their shoulders, just _beaming_ at how wonderful everything had turned out.

"We're a very family-orientated company," his father had said. "We design and innovate for the future—for our children's future." He had squeezed Steven's shoulder gently and turned affectionately to Ren. "The Chairman's daughter and my son are actively involved in the mechanics of our company—everything we design, they try out first hand. Steven, show them our newest pokéball." Steven had stared blankly, seconds passing by, before Ren had pinched him, and then, like somebody had turned on a light switch, he smiled, and from his waist belt, pulled up black orb rimmed with yellow and red.

"The luxury ball is the finest innovation in pokémon technology," the Chairman had went onto to say. "Why, my Ren here keeps her little eevee in one, don't you, sweetie?"

And of course, Ren was far more versed and far more ready, and from behind her back, she whipped out the pokéball. Steven had blinked, and suddenly, her eevee was in her arms and the gathered crowd began to close in.

"And how does your pokémon like the newest ball from Devon Corporation?" the reporter had asked her, voice sugar sweet.

"Eevee adores the luxury ball," Ren had told the lady-in-pink. "Don't you, Eevee?" she cooed deceptively; the crowd made signs of adoration and cameras flashed, and the next day on the front of every newspaper across Hoenn there was a photo of the Devon Corporation 'family' splashed in black and white—Steven holding onto the newest Devon Corp. technology, the luxury ball, his parents smiling, hands on his shoulders, Ren cuddling her show-piece eevee, and her father, the Chairman grinning happily from behind.

"_DEVON CORPORATION STRONGER THAN EVER_" the headline read. "_FAMILY GALA ADORED BY ALL_"

But that isn't what they were talking about now. Ren doesn't care that he had fumbled on his lines and froze in front of the camera. She is and always will be more than capable of picking up Steven's slack—even now, she is trying to fix things.

He wonders about the complex mechanics of Ren's mind before reminding himself that she's just, what, twelve? Beside him, he notices a small noise, and upon further inspection, it's observed that her eevee just sneezed.

"You mean the battle?" he asks with veiled thinness. He doesn't want to talk about this—but it doesn't work the way it should, so his face turns even hotter. His cheeks flush. Ren's expression doesn't change—she pets her eevee, who despite the heat, is shivering, and pushes a strand of too-blonde hair behind her ear. "It was just a little fun—" he tries deceptively, "Wallace wanted to—"

"Don't lie to me" says Ren from his left. Steven sighs and runs a hand through his hair—teeth chewing his lips—and no, he's not nervous, but sometimes Ren scares him. She can be so—_so_…everything he's not. Like the way she was in front of the camera. Just—ready. She was always ready for everything and has been since they were eight.

"You don't know what he's like," Steven finally grits through closely gnashed teeth. In his hands is a pokéball, twirling idly between his fingers. Black and red, black and red, black and red. He stares at it—at his one pokéball, with his one Pokémon and the ball loses its spin.

"You don't know him either," she points out evenly. "And somebody could've been hurt—Steven, you've never battled anyone in your _life_—"

"And neither have you." He cuts her off, moodily staring up at the sky—at the birds and the wilting leafs on the sycamore tree—and he can see a flock of wingulls heading out to sea.

"I was trying to help you," she says tritely. Then, quieter: "It didn't seem fair that Wallace had three pokémon and you only had one…"

She doesn't mention how she embarrassed him by coming to his rescue, or how despite her best efforts, the two of them still lost. She doesn't mention the smug look that was on Wallace's face when both his beldum and her eevee lay still and unmoving in the expanse of the garden behind the gala, soaked and unconscious, badly beaten. She doesn't mention these things—she doesn't have to; they are written on the creases of his face.

"We lost," he says darkly. "And Wallace won. And did you see the look on Winia's—"

"—_Winona_," she corrects him gently.

"—face?"

"I saw," she says quietly. And then, chest rising and eyes glued fixedly to his face, she purses her lips together and glares. "Why does it matter to you so much, Steven? _Why now_? So what? We lost—it was to be expected. We've never battled anyone before—and I don't count fighting you as a 'battle', because you never let me lose and our Pokémon are _weak_."

Overhead, the sun is creeping westwards, unfathomably bright—almost invisible against the pale blue, and sticky sweat trickles down the side of his neck. He hates the heat. He likes Rustboro better—he likes the cool canopy of the nearby forest and the damp air of the musky Rusturf Tunnel. Mossdeep is sweltering and dry—the air stifling and salty. He tells himself he'll move away someday—to Petalburg or Mauville City. To the mountains of Lavaridge. Anywhere but here.

"It matters because I'm Steven Stone and you're Ren Regean."

"No it doesn't—"

"_Ren_," he says quietly and quickly and his voice harsh and deep and strained. "It matters, okay? It matters."

They sit in silence and her eevee is still sneezing—I mean, what had they expected? The poor little thing only knew tackle and his beldum knew what—_take-down_? Pathetic.

"I'm going to train," he tells her offhandedly. "I'm going to challenge the Rustboro gym leader soon."

Ren doesn't look at him. She stares abjectly at her eevee. She doesn't tell him that she'll train with him, or that she'll go back to Rustboro too. She pets her pokémon, who licks at her fingers and Steven realizes that this is bad news—that for once in their lives, they'll be doing something differently and apart—not as _StevenandRen, _but Steven _and_ Ren, separately, distinct and independent. Ren fiddles with her pokéball and her eevee disappears in flash, white and yellow, then the ball is closed again. She leans over, puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles—not happily—not with humor or wryness, or anything. Just lips hiding teeth. She pushes herself up from him and tells him she's going to the Poké Center—her eevee's getting worse.

"I think he has a fever," she says. "That feebas's surf was overkill."

He tries to find his voice, to shout, 'Ren—_wait_!' but he doesn't, just nods and –

She is gone, walking down the slope to the rocky path back into town. Steven is upset for the rest of the afternoon and Ren does not come to find him. This bothers him. He goes home and mentions his plans to his father, who simply shrugs and tells him it's a fine idea—maybe he could call Wallace up and gets some tips! Steven nods numbly, but never picks up a phone, and the next day, finds himself back in Rustboro. Ren is not with him.

* * *

He squints harder.

The air smells musky and wet—and he supposes if he really wanted to do better, he would train out in the open—in the grass, or even the water, but he doesn't want a taillow or a wurmple or even a silcoon. He's looking for something.

In the dark, everything seems unfamiliar. He stumbles over rocks and trips on cracks and gropes the rough walls blindly. For all his merit and worth as the son and heir of the Devon Corporation, he really doesn't know a _thing_ about pokémon. What he does know is geodes and rare stones—but that isn't doing a damn thing for him in this tunnel as zubats swoop overhead and geodudes tumble by his feet. In the distance, he can hear a faint rumbling.

_But_—

(But.)

He cannot explain this feeling to Ren or Wallace or anyone. There is this unmitigated intensity to it all—something unfastened and intrinsic and basic and free. Something transcendent—something that is above waking each morning and eating breakfast on pretty porcelain plates and spending his time in such a cavalier manner of laziness and unimportance. Because baking in the salty sea air and digging through mud and sand for stones does not compare. Nor does just sitting around and playing with his father's newest gadgets from the company.

He thinks Wallace may understand this, _sort of_…and maybe that's why Wallace went to Rustboro. Did Wallace just wake up one morning and feel bored with his life? Is that why he went out and started to train pokémon? And how was it that he compelled him—Steven Stone—to follow in same manner?

He trips—nearly falling face first into the crunch of gravel and sharp shards of shale beneath his feet.

He doesn't swear or curse or cry. He smiles. This is beautiful, somehow.

The walls are wet—hands pressed against the cool of the damp stone— and he ducks his head and blinks again, but all that his gaze meets is darkness and faint edges of stalactites. He looks at his shoes—scuffed and muddy, and to the hem of his pants, torn and ripped. He looks to his hands, bloody and scratched and sore.

He is tired and hungry. His feet hurt from walking and he's been attacked one too many times to know that without the safeguard of repellent, he is nothing but a target. There is also a learning curb to overcome—because for all the trainers' handbooks he read as a child, nothing can prepare you for this. He feels as though the authors of those books should have placed a warning inside them of: "_Caution: incomplete—these short passages only touch the surface of reality_." Applying the knowledge of reading about throwing a pokéball to actually throwing one is not at all how the books described. There is distance to take into the factors and timing and the state of the pokémon's health and the weather—is it raining or windy or snowing? And what about your aim?

His heart jumps slightly in his chest when he hears a screech, but the creature passes, yet the rigid clutch on his pokéball does not lessen. He liked it better when he traversed this cave with a light and nothing bothered him. Nothing—

He never took himself as an aggressive person, but here, in the darkness, he supposes he'll have to learn to be one. There is no laconism or good manners when it comes to real life; to fighting aimlessly against wild pokémon with the hopes of becoming stronger. He thinks of Ren, and her last words to him before he set off from home.

"_Why are you doing this?"_

He couldn't think of a real answer that would satisfy her and so he said nothing, hugged her closely, and left.

He sighs and leans his head back against the stone wall and _click_—his beldum is sitting there, blinking at him widely with its ocular, red eye.

He thinks of Wallace and his smug smile at the gala—of the frigid table conversation between the four children of the affluent families of Hoenn—Winona and Wallace, Steven and Ren. He thinks of Ren and Winona laughing (they got along so well) and Wallace smirking and the flutes of champagne the children were served despite them all being well under-age. He thinks about the casual, easy way in which Wallace cornered him in private and suggested ever so calmly that they have a little battle—just for fun of course—and how he had stupidly agreed and thought with all the unwarranted hate and vindication and resentment of a fool that he could beat him.

His beldum creeps along the wall, floating agilely up towards the ceiling and plants itself there, like a rock. It starts to whirl—it's found an interesting stone, but Steven ignores its calls. They're not here to dig.

He thinks of going home and crawling back into his bed and telling Ren maybe she was right—it doesn't matter about aspirations and dreams of being a great trainer or proving himself through the merit of gyms badges.

He thinks of all these things and does nothing. It takes him three days of blindly groping his way through the tunnel, throwing a plethora of balls aimlessly and without trial—one after another after another, but when he finally emerges on the other side, he finally has what he wants.

(See here Steven Stone: twelve years old, smart, bright, with unlived ambitions, emerging victorious, growing wildly and stupidly and recklessly, falling into the footsteps of every other naive child in Hoenn thinking they will one day be a champion. Settling for silver in so many ways.)

* * *

He does not go home. Instead, he marches to the Rustboro pokémart and throws away his shoes and clothing and all the books he brought with him. He buys a plethora of medical supplies and a first-aid kit. He buys hiking boots and a back pack. He buys a bike.

It takes a long time, but when his beldum finally passes out from exhaustion, he couldn't be happier. He repeats this strategy, again and again, day after day until his satisfied. Then, just when he thinks he's just about done, he starts on the second pokéball sitting in his bag. He does this until his fingers ache—until he's tired of grasping the cold plastic ball in between sweating fingers, and his voice is hoarse and his shins are sore from inane little pokémon clawing at his ankles.

It takes a long time—

When he is finished, he is addicted to instant-noodle packages and granola bars. His tent seems too small and smells faintly of dirty clothing, but the wilderness too big. He is un-showered and cold and his hair is a mess. He hates any sound that doesn't appear human and there is so much mud between his toes that he figures he should just be walking around barefoot. He thinks of Wallace and his impractical get-up and wonders if he actually wears it when he's out training. It seems like a silly idea.

His world is a mess right now, because he needs real food and his first-aid ran out of band-aids a long time ago and he is hungry (because even though he can't stop, eating granola bars all day doesn't cut it) and his jaw aches from when a geodude ambushed his face.

He sits under a tree in the canopy of the forest, 20 miles out of town, and idly fingers his cell phone, cover plate scratched, numbers mashed with dust and dirt. His beldum whirls pleasantly, rotating round and round, floating up the branch of a tree, while his aron chews on a stone. It feels weird, he decides, to have another Pokémon, but he's been reading up on some of the stones he has collected back in Mossdeep and knows that if he finds the right type, he can create something wonderful. It's a pleasant feeling. He calls Ren, three times, but she doesn't pick up—he only gets her voice-mail.

"_Hi—this is Ren Reagan_—"

He hasn't seen her in nearly a month, but the sound of her voice sort seems to make things just okay.

When he finally reaches Rustboro City again, he is in and out of the gym in fifteen minutes flat. The shiny incandescent badge he receives in lieu of his victory is meaningless in a trivial sort of way, so he throws it to the bottom of his bag and picks up his bike and heads east.

(And no, he does not go home. He is addicted to granola bars and instant noodles and something else—something he does not dare say or mention—and he's almost forgotten Wallace—almost, but not really, because it was all that bastard's fault that he is in this mess anyways and every once in a while, he'll get a text asking him how he's _doing_ and where he's at—I'm in Lavaridge at the moment—care to _join_ me? And Steven can almost image the tone of his voice and the leer on his face and just—_everything_.)

He thinks of Ren again, of her un-answering voice-mail, of the unrelenting heat of Mossdeep that kills trees in the middle of the summer, and of the rocky seashore of his childhood home. He thinks of his father—who may be in Rustboro or may not. He thinks of his comfortable bed with his comfortable clothing and the luxuries of having a warm shower. He is decidedly traitorous, because somehow, in a way he doesn't quite understand, this is all so much better.

When Ren doesn't pick up after the fifth time, he stops calling.

* * *

"I wasn't angry at you," she mutters calmly, rolling her eyes. "Haven't you read the papers recently?"

Steven's pulse is racing but his breath catches in his throat. He can't speak—only shakes his head dumbly and swallows. He is undecidedly nervous.

"I've been in Fortree," she rhymes off flippantly. "The wind makes it difficult to get a decent signal—especially being so high up. Didn't you ever get the messages I sent you back?"

Steven nods 'no'—he's been traversing caves—the granite tunnels of Dewford, most recently. He tells her in a voice that's not so dissimilar to her own that it's difficult to get a signal so far underground. Regardless, he knows there is something wrong with her sentence - _he knows_. He knows, because she's the one who's great at lying—not him. Ren is used to Steven's inability to lie, at his complete failure in hiding secrets from her. But now, there is a tick in her voice—a crack of some emotion he doesn't quite understand. '_I've been in Fortree_.' Something seems off. Fortree. With Winona. But she doesn't tell him this. Oh no.

"Your aron is trying to eat the table leg again," she says lightly, casually, and Steven tries not to laugh at this. He picks up the tiny creature, whose legs scuttle widely, but it's no use. "Has your beldum evolved yet?

Again Steven shakes his head 'no'—in a few more days, maybe. He's not strong enough yet—but has learned some new moves.

"Oh really, now."

He's pleased to see his gaze stitch stubbornly on his own eyes, and he shrugs. "You should come with me when I go again—"

She snorts, like a laugh almost, but does it nonchalantly, infuriatingly so, "You really haven't been reading the papers have you, Steven," she says slowly and calmly (and just a little bit sadly).

She stands up and rummages around in the light of her kitchen, opening drawers and closing them, searching through piles of unread papers and bills until she finally comes up with what she wants. She sets a two month old paper down in front of him, the edges slightly curled and damaged, a coffee ring pressed lightly over the print.

Steven nearly chokes on air and coughs loudly. Ren says nothing, waits, eyes overcast and dark, hands positioned neatly in the cup of her lap.

"_CHAIRMAN SOLOMON DIAGNOSED WITH STAGE 3 CANCER—DEVON CORPORATION DOING ALL IT CAN FOR COMPAN__Y'S__ HEAD REPRESENTATIVE_"

Steven stares at the newspaper, eyes fixated on the black, warbled print, thick and bold, blunt and unforgiving. He stares at the headline, at the word 'cancer' and 'devon corporation' and thinks of Fortree and Ren and her father and cancer—cancer—cancer. He thinks of all the unreturned phone calls, of his happy-go-lucky message of: "Ren—I'm at the Slateport Beach; it's beautiful," and "Ren—call me back, I caught a new pokémon," and "Ren—." He looks at Ren for the first time in all the months he's been away and sees medication and sadness substituting for things he should have been there to deal with—the cracks of Ren's façade now only slightly visible behind watery gray eyes and trying in vain to be filled with prescriptions and frivolous trips to Fortree—to Winona, the only person she has at the moment, because Steven, her best friend, is off on some fucking adventure.

"_Ren_," he tries softly. "Ren, I'm—"

"—_Don't_." She cuts him off, voice sharp, and suddenly he sees what he should have been seeing since he first arrived. Her hair is a mess and the counter-tops are covered in papers and boxes and empty orange bottles with little white caps (the Reagan household is normally clean). Her fingers are curling, tightly, solidly, furiously. "Don't say you're 'sorry', Steven. I'm so sick of it - I'm so sick of - "

Her voice cracks and for once in all the twelve years of his short and inexperienced life, he feels the unpleasant ebb of awkward discomfort around Ren. It'll be a lasting feeling that grows and grows until he can no longer deal with it, and he too will break. Things will fall apart.

But right here, right now, he does not recognize the signs of this pre-dawn cataclysm.

"I'm so sick of it all, Steven..."

He doesn't tell her he's sorry (even though he really is). Instead, he sits in the silence and without meaning to, lets his aron drop to the ground. It hisses and scuttles away, hiding irately in the shadows.

"_Ren_—"

Ren is smiling, sadly, softly, cheeks flush from the heat of Mossdeep and outside, the sun is shining brightly.

"Your father thinks if we fly to treatment in Johto, we'd have a better chance. Goldenrod has a state of the art treatment facility—"

Steven stops listening. Something happens that he doesn't know how to describe in its surreality, in its nagging familiarity, and he thinks back to when he was eight year old. He meets Ren and her father—smile, Steven, Mr. Reagan and his daughter will be joining us at the company—and later, when they are sitting in the shade, their parents inside talking profit and profitability, he is stupid enough to ask where her mother is.

Ren has all the credibility of an eight year old—flat chest, rosy cheeks, scraped knees, and dirty fingers—but none of the character. She pops the cherry candy from her mouth, sticky sweet and melting from the heat before shrugging and telling Steven, as if it was _the_ most obvious thing in the world.

"Dead."

The word rings out bluntly, hanging thickly off the tip of her tongue before she pops the candy back in her mouth and smiles at him, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her freshly pierced ears.

"And don't look at me like that," she tells him. "I never met her—it's no big deal."

Now, as he looks at Ren, he sees what he could not see then, or maybe what she couldn't be then, but he doesn't really know, so all he do is make assumptions. He sees that she is scared and that she is worried and that underneath her graceless façade of bluntness and aimlessness, she is someone who is just as lost as he is. (Because he still doesn't know why he doesn't come home for good—but comparing the sickness of her father to his unanswerable need to be better than Wallace is silly and stupid and inane and—)

"Steven," she says. "I'm going to Johto with him—I don't know how long I'll be gone."

There is silence, and then Steven is hugging her and nodding his head. He tells her to keep in touch—"Call me _every_ day, even if I don't answer." She promises that she will.

(But Ren is a wonderful liar.)

A week later, he's on route 110 when he sees the wispy trails of a plane darting overhead. He thinks of all the things Ren didn't say to him. She didn't say, "I need you right now." She didn't say, "Come with me." She didn't say, "Don't go." She didn't say, "Leave."

He thinks of things that she didn't say and the things she did, and then tries to figure out if she meant any of them.

And then he stops, because he has to get ready for the day—he's challenging the Dewford gym leader soon—but before he does, he picks up a paper.

(He'll buy a paper everyday for the rest of his life, and he'll grow old with stacks of them bundled tritely in the basement of his home. He'll never leave Mossdeep. He doesn't think it's strange or weird or odd—just a necessity. He needs to know. Because later on, when they're a bit older and Steven is a bit taller, stubble filling in the smooth curves of his cheeks, voice breaking and hormones driving him crazy, she doesn't call him anymore. Her father will be dead by this point, and she won't come to the company Christmas party, despite receiving an invitation. Devon Corporation will have a new chairman, and somehow by then he'll know more about Wallace and even Winona than he knows about Ren. He won't know how this happened. But then he'll see a picture of her face in the paper—heiress Ren Reagan, sole survivor of the Reagan family travels to Kanto—and it will make everything that's going wrong in his own life seem a little bit better. Even if it's not by much.)

He challenges the old man, Leon of Dewford—a nasty piece of work if he ever met one—and wins.


End file.
